I sailed for Liberia, as the average American, with my head full of wild ideas that were equal in foundation to the Stork, Santa Claus, and Paul Bunyan. I was much comforted by seeing no bands of blacks in quest of a white man’s heart. They don’t even make it a practice of killing whites, let alone eating them. I awaited in trembling anticipation to see long, slimy serpents hanging from the many boughs that overhang the rivers-but not a one (I was sober). The terrible heat that is supposed to poach one’s brain and make life unbearable only affected the mercury to the extent of 93 degrees. The ferocious lion does not inhabit the deep jungle and the stealthy leopard, whose tail I nearly trod upon, ran like the family tabby that has been caught drinking out of the cream pitcher.